Spring is here! And that means babies! You may be one of the many humans that are expecting a baby soon. As someone who neither has children nor finds them particularly interesting, I feel eminently qualified to provide you with truly objective advice in regard to naming your baby!

The first thing to remember when naming your baby is you are naming a human being and not a horse. This is a fact that some people seem to forget, mostly people in the entertainment industry. Though, just to take a momentary diversion here, if we could have an Entertainment Industry Baby Kentucky Derby, here would be my choices for the qualifiers along with the odds that when they grow up they’ll still be on speaking terms with their parents:

As far as still speaking to their parents when they reach adulthood, my money is on the two favorites Moxie Crimefighter and Fifi Trixibelle, just because they have pizzazz. If this was an actual race, though, I’d have to go with the progeny of The Edge, Bono, Lil’ Kim, and Mr. Papers as I’m pretty sure those four are actually horses.

Many elements go into naming a baby. We’ve covered stupidity and whimsy already. Another key ingredient is narcissism. People who are equally as famous as those mentioned above, and equally wealthy, but with far more boring jobs, have a propensity for going in the other direction, which is just as bad. That is naming their child after them and just slapping a Roman numeral after it. This is mean. I personally don’t care for people-names with Roman numerals after them. I don’t think it’s fair to the child to have a number after his or her name unless they happen to be the ruler of a European country. A child should have a name separate from either of their parents so as to be allowed to have their own identity. Despite living a life of affluence, I can only sympathize with someone who had to go through life with a name like John D. Rockefeller: The Sequel, or worse yet, someone who found himself really far down the line from the original, as in the case of John Jacob Astor 6.0. Assuming you are the child, being named after your father (and we all know it’s pretty much a Mini Me guy thing) also dooms you to a lifetime of being known as “Little” something-or-other and your father “Big” something-or-other, which never goes away even when you get big enough to beat the crap out of him for not giving you your own name. This is not helpful for developing a healthy self-esteem. I would cite as an example the Roman Emperor Caligula. The word “Caligula” means “Little Boots.” If you were called Little Boots all your life you’d be pretty unpleasant too once given the opportunity to be so, especially to whoever called you Little Boots.

While every parent wants their child to eventually stand out from the crowd, it’s important that your child start off life by fitting in. If not fitting in, then at least going unnoticed, to avoid getting beaten up by other children named Biff. Of course, making sure your child is given a name that helps them fit in can be taken too far as well, which is why you shouldn’t call your son Grub even if you’re Jane Goodall and everyone you know is a chimpanzee. Grub is not a career-growth oriented name and some day he may want to leave the jungle treehouse, move to the city, get a high paying job, and date a human woman. Two of these four things will be a challenge for someone named Grub.

Depending on what your child does for a living when they grow up, there are rare though fortuitous times when your thoughtless naming of them can actually work out well. Kennesaw Mountain Landis comes to mind. He was a judge and then later the commissioner of baseball back in the day when baseballs were made out of wood. His father named him after the place where he had been wounded in the Civil War. Obviously his father was a jerk, but at least he didn’t name his son The Groin. While this weighty name must have been a struggle to deal with as a child, it’s a great name if you’re a judge and/or the commissioner of baseball as it emphasizes the fact that you will always have the last word in any negotiation just in case anybody who has to deal with you is confused about this beforehand. Of course, if he’d grown up to be a fashion designer he’d always be known around the office as just “Kenny”. Maybe Mr. Kenny, if he was really good at fashion design.

The problem is that you don’t know what your child is going to end up doing for a career or how successful they will be. This is why you need to play it close to the vest and give them an average, less than dynamic name that will allow them to maintain their dignity when they become a failure.

I’ve always been intrigued by Native American surnames that carry on the tradition of actual nouns and verbs making up the name. For example, a woman’s surname I came across just recently at work was Slaps A Bear. This is a pretty cool name. It does, however, lose something if your parents have named you Phoebe, as was the case here. My advice to Native American parents would be to go all the way in the naming of your child in the traditional sense, and rather than going with Phoebe or Julie or something else European for the purpose of your child fitting in so as to avoid getting beaten up by girls named Brandi, try something like Godzilla Woman. Godzilla Woman Slaps A Bear is a cool name. Also it encourages your daughter to be constantly aware of her proud Asian heritage.

It’s important to take into account your last name before giving your child a first name. The classic error here is Ima Hogg. She was a real person, and a great philanthropist, giving away great amounts of her fortune. If she could have given away her name I’m sure she would have. I wonder if she was trying to buy her way out of embarrassment–kind of like the way Andrew Carnegie tried to buy himself out of going to hell. I digress. Another example? Heidi is a really good name to give your child, especially if you’re of Nordic ancestry, but not so much if you’re famous Hawaiian crooner Don Ho. So use your head.

Hippie names are right out. If someone asks you what you plan to name your baby, and when you tell them, you feel a wonderful glow inside and you have a beatific smile on your face, then it’s a stupid name. I once met someone named Sunshine. This is a cruel thing to name your child because you’re dooming her to a life of only being able to have one emotion–tranquilized joy. And if she is ever able to summon true sadness, no one will ever be able to comfort her by saying, “Why so glum, Sunshine?” without an ironic smirk on their face.

Here’s a few more random tips to keep in mind when naming your baby:

Don’t name your daughter Chastity unless you know how to spell it and are aware there are two T’s in it. Also, don’t name your daughter Chastity.

Cassandra is a good name for a girl, unless she develops a process for cold fusion, in which case no one will believe her.

Don’t name your son Boris. Or Adolph. Or Hermann Goering.

Don’t name your child D’jango, Placido, Elvis, Rudyard, Aretha, Che, Fidel, Igor, Bathsheba, Jiminy, or Evita because you have some sort of ill-defined infatuation with the actual person or their name. These are one-time names and they’ve been used up.

Don’t name your son Edsel and then name the worst car you’ve ever designed in his honor.

In Germany they have an agency that reviews baby names. Really. I remember hearing an interview on the radio with the head of it. When asked why Germany has such an agency, he said, “We feel it’s important that the child not be given a stupid name.” That’s what he said–not making it up. I think we should have the same. We could have a really big group of people who are in charge of reviewing or making up baby names. And then we could have a somewhat larger group of people who are actually in charge of making babies. There’ll be a quiz for both to see if you qualify. It has just one question, and it’s multiple choice. Here it is:

After being stable for ten thousand years, most of the Larsen Ice Shelf in Antarctica has just recently disintegrated. This was most likely caused by–

(This is not an essay about classic English horror movies from the 60’s starring Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. It’s about hammers. Just FYI so you’re not confused while you’re reading in case you didn’t notice the picture).

A few weeks back I was voicing displeasure with Chinese-made goods, and advised buying products from countries other than China when unable to find a suitable version that was made in America. I have recently taken a step further forward here, having just bought a Vietnamese-made hammer. I already have two perfectly good hammers, and by perfectly good I mean they’re clumps of metal attached to a stick, and when you hit a nail with them the nail goes into the wood further than if you pushed it in with your thumb. It’s pretty much all we expect from a hammer, I guess, which now makes me consider what might constitute a hammer having gone bad. It’s not like they turn green–which now makes me realize that calling them “perfectly good” was probably unnecessary. Anyway, the first hammer I have has a wooden handle and is extremely old. It belonged to my grandfather and may have been made in the 20’s or 30’s. It’s the closest thing I have to a family heirloom, which gives you an idea of how close our family is. I wanted my own personal hammer, though, so I bought one five years ago for $6. This hammer was made in China. They did have American-made hammers but they all had 20 to 24-ounce heads, which is an ideal weight if you’re a fireman. The Chinese hammer works fine, unfortunately it has a barcode sticker on it that I’d never been able to peel off. I got very assertive one day and scraped it off, but now there is all this sticker goo where the sticker used to be and I can’t get that off–because it’s a cheap Chinese sticker and not one of those new stickers that peel off and don’t leave goo. I’m allergic to Goo Gone so I tried soaking it in hot water, and scrubbing it, but that didn’t work. I tried putting the sticker back on but it’s all ripped up and makes for a poor presentation. The goo doesn’t impede the process of hammering something, it just looks bad. I put up with this sticker situation for the longest time because I found it difficult to justify buying a third hammer just to satisfy some sort of vain desire for symbolic independence and goo-freeness that would be displayed on my workbench in case anybody ever came downstairs to look at where I build all the nonsense for the cats. As so I abided, hoping that one day the hammer might go bad and turn green, thus forcing my hand.

But then one day I arrived at the perfect solution. I thought to myself, “I’ll start a hammer collection.” By starting a collection of something, it’s impossible for you to buy any related item foolishly. You also cannot have too many. I adopted this concept after seeing how often women buy shoes. Women do not own a lot of shoes–they own a shoe collection. There’s a huge difference. And I want to thank them for inventing this collection concept. It’s brilliant. And because of it I now have a hammer that is not only goo-free but which I feel is my own personal hammer and not some hand-me-down. I would feel better if it didn’t say “Stanley” on it since that’s not my name, but it was the only non-Chinese hammer Menards carries that isn’t intended to be used for a track and field event.

I have to tell you that this whole collection concept has been a real godsend for me, for it has completely erased all measure of guilt that I frequently had due to a propensity to never throw anything away unless it had larvae on it. Trying to previously counter that habit, I had cleaned out the kitchen junk drawer months back and as a result ended up throwing away a tailor’s cloth tape measure (nothing else, just that). It had been decades since I’d needed to measure my own inseam so I thought purging this one item would be psychologically freeing. It wasn’t. Just a few days later I realized that if I ever had to measure a giant letter “S” or a really short anaconda I’d be up the creek without a paddle. To rectify this I’ve since purchased another cloth tape measure and added it to my collection of what I call rosanbu. This is an acronym for Random Objects Sitting Around Not Being Used. I have much rosanbu. You should also as it leaves you prepared for anything.

With the collection concept, also gone is the guilt of not throwing away boom boxes, radios, computers, and cassette tape recorders that have some sort of malfunction, such as the ON button doesn’t work. Up until now I’d been keeping all these things in “quarantine” until the day arrived when space aliens came to my home and told me how to fix them. I realize now I’d been living in denial. I also realize that the close bond people form with family members is something I reserve for inanimate objects with wires inside them. But I no longer let this bother me, because now I have an “Electrical Devices That No Longer Work Museum.” This is an even better thing to have than just a collection because things in a museum aren’t supposed to function anyway. Also, as they compose a museum, they are thematically joined together by relating to specific moments in my life, and life lessons learned. For example, boom boxes one through six and their accompanying twelve speakers represent a two-year period in my life divided into segments of 80 to 89 days each when I was heavily into buying stuff from Walmart because I lived across the street, and which eventually resulted in my learning that whistling and humming are more financially sound activities than buying boom boxes from Walmart. The analog 4-track recorder with the volume knob stem snapped off represents my late musical recording career (The Solo Period, 1993 to 1996), during which I learned that getting your original songs published is easy provided the publisher already knows who you are because he’s your uncle. Or you’re Bruce Springsteen. And my most recent addition, the miniature keyboard vacuum cleaner that apparently only works on molecules, represents everything I’ve thought about and learned since last Friday. This is mainly not to buy miniature keyboard vacuum cleaners.

So if you come by I’d be more than happy to take you downstairs on a tour of my wonderful Hammer Collection (featuring my new and stylish black and yellow Vietnamese hammer, “Stanley”), as well as my Electrical Devices That Don’t Work Museum. And if you like those, I’ll even let you see my Extra Random Screws And Allen Wrenches That Came With Thirty Years Of Purchased Pre-Fab Furniture But Don’t Actually Seem To Serve Any Practical Purpose Whatsoever But You Never Know Emporium.

Falling in love with guns,Many folks have two.What are we to do?God help us.

–Marlene Dietrich

If you’re a politician, the best way to look like you’re doing something for people that want you to do something, while at the same time making sure people that don’t want you to do something are equally satisfied, is in the realm of gun control. Let’s look at last month’s mass shooting as an example (it doesn’t matter when you’re reading this, you’re still going to say, “Oh, yeah, I read about that last month,” because we have one every month). As did happen then and many times before, the first thing politicians do/did/will do again in order to look both concerned and assertive, and at the same time please everybody including the NRA, is proclaim, “We have to get better ways of keeping guns out of the hands of unstable people!”

Hey, we’re all unstable. Being unstable is what we do best. We’re humans. If any species is going to be allowed to own firearms I’d rather have it be wolves. Even wolves with fingers.

As an example of assertive impotence, because of one such mass shooting several years ago our Senate pushed through a law that prohibited the use of 13-shot magazines for semi-automatic pistols. For clarity on what this means, let’s digress for a moment here and review an excerpt from Guns for Dummies:

The magazine is a long, narrow box that slides into the handle of the gun and holds the bullets; think PEZ dispenser, but bigger and made out of metal, and without the Mickey Mouse or Bozo the Clown head on it. Its capacity can range between 6 to 13 bullets for a semi-automatic pistol. A semi-automatic pistol is one that has a gas powered mechanism that cocks the hammer back automatically after you fire a shot and spits out the empty shell casing, while simultaneously loading another bullet into the chamber. This is the type of gun you see in modern movies all the time because it looks cool and facilitates rapid firing, which is fun and exciting. This doesn’t have the little cylinder thing in the middle that spins around, like the ones you see in Westerns.

The Senate, in the interest of public safety, and themselves, voted to ban the 13-shot magazine for handguns. The plan was this would thwart any would-be assassin from firing off 13 shots in quick succession, provided they couldn’t afford two guns and only had one hand. And while most people have two hands, this having to eject one empty magazine and load another is still a complicated process, taking as long as, oh, three seconds. Certainly this is more than sufficient time for a merely wounded bystander to call 911 and prevent a real tragedy (six people dead being a tragedy, thirteen a real tragedy). Phew. Thank God this law passed. What kind of Wild West world would we be in if it hadn’t?

The defense of this transparently hollow and self-serving measure, as well as those similar to it (such as outlawing switchblade knives but not machine guns, in the interest of public safety), is always, “If this can prevent the death of just one person, then I know we have accomplished something good.” Mmmmm. No. Why? Because 29,999 gun fatalities per year is not an improvement on 30,000.

The only thing that made this magazine bill more ridiculous than it actually was, is the fact that when it was announced that this law would be going into place, and a future date for it assigned, the Smith and Wesson company went from one shift per day to three shifts per day and worked around the clock doing nothing but producing large capacity magazines up until the deadline–when it would become illegal to buy one, not own one. And I can’t fault them: Why should they take the moral high ground when nobody else is? Also, it’s their legal business. I actually feel compelled to give them an A+ for initiative.

Pro-gun people state that the right to bear arms is in the Constitution. I’m not the first to point this out, but so is slavery being okay. Also, it clearly states in the second amendment of the Constitution that each person has the right to bear arms on the chance that we’re invaded by Martians. This is a critical stipulation. Look it up.

Either way, if Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin were around today, and you wanted to personally thank them for supporting your right to carry your Glock into Taco Bell or buy an AK-47 for you ten-year old daughter’s birthday, I’m sure in either case they would say, “Whoa, we didn’t mean that thing! What the hell is that?” What they were referring to back then, gun-wise, was a weapon that required you to be married because your wife had to be at the skinny end ramming a mini-ball down the barrel while you tried starting a fire in the flash pan with a pair of sticks while your child held his finger on the trigger waiting for the go-code from dad, all of you hoping that whatever it was that was intent on attacking you would need to stop and pee first. Guns were considered reasonably safe at the time the Constitution was written because it took an hour to fire one.

Beyond the Constitution, many people feel that owning a gun is some sort of natural right. To this I say if each human being were born with the ability to point their finger at someone and make that someone dead, I would want some sort of surgical procedure performed on each newborn that removed this ability. I don’t care if it’s natural. It’s not conducive to a productive and healthy society.

Regarding the argument of home defense, it’s a fact that a loaded gun in the house makes it five hundred times as likely that you or someone in your home–who’s not a burglar–will be seriously injured or killed in comparison to the probability that you’ll prevent an intrusion. Most people are not aware of this fact given that I just made it up, but that’s not the point. A gun for home defense is only slightly less dangerous than having a guard python in the hallway.

I don’t know why but a lot of people feel secure by sleeping with a gun next to their bed. A lot of other people feel secure by sleeping with a wolverine. I advise neither. Ideally the best home protection is six German Shepherds. You may not be a dog person, however. And cats have a history of letting strangers in. Your best defense, other than many German dogs–or a gun–would be to leave a mannequin sitting in a rocking chair in the living room facing away from the door. Put a wig on it with the hair in a bun so it looks from the back like Norman Bates’ mother. If you choose to go this route, in the summertime you could even leave the front door wide open to get a good nighttime breeze, because no one’s coming in.

I’m told it’s impossible to get rid of all the guns in America because if we outlaw handguns and assault weapons, people will still want and have rifles to go hunting. I realize that hunting is a tradition. I am not fond of this. I personally do not hunt. I don’t like killing something unless it really has it coming. Consequently I don’t understand the concept of killing for fun. I don’t understand the concept of downhill skiing for fun either, but that’s a different subject. While I would like everybody to also not like hunting, I realize this is not ever going to change since hunting’s been a tradition with humans ever since it was a necessity during the Pre-Grocery Store Era, when the alternative to hunting was death (or yams, which I think of as being closely related). So what I propose is that all hunting rifles be sixteen-feet long. This will provide a wonderful challenge to hunters just to aim it, making the hunt all that more intriguing. And if you don’t get your deer in November, you don’t have to feel bad, because nobody else will have either.

I know if we remove guns there will be both an activity void and underfed ego crisis amongst many, especially for those who feel that shooting a gun is both an aid to and symbol of their rugged, individualistic machismo. For those people I suggest caber tossing as a replacement. If you don’t know what a caber is, it’s a telephone pole. You throw it. This is such a manly activity that men who do it in Scotland wear skirts at the same time just to prove how incredibly confident in their manliness they are. Not only would this be a great activity for American males to take up in place of going to the shooting range, I would also note that there has never been a single incident of somebody accidentally wounding or killing themselves while cleaning their caber. So, gun guys, give caber tossing a try. Make sure to bend your knees. Also the skirt is optional. And if you enjoy caber tossing as much as I think you will, try caber hunting too.

I am about to embark on the greatest journey any man has ever embarked on. What I find, only I will find. But I’ll write it all down.

October 23, 1492
I am ready to leave Palos after having loaded the ship. I have a crew of 40. The Nina and the Pinta have 26 men aboard them respectively, all fine sailors to a man and fine ships, except for mine which is kind of a stinker.

October 24
The men on the Nina have mutinied and thrown the captain overboard. He was able to make it safely to land by the grace of God and the fact that we’re still in the harbor and he only landed in about four feet of water.

October 25
The rudder of the Pinta has fallen off. I’m sure Pinzon, captain of the Pinta, is behind this. He did not want to undertake this voyage as he’s just a big baby.

October 26
Have put into Santiago to have the Pinta’s rudder repaired. The guy at the shipyard says it will take a week as he has to send for a new rudder altogether, as the old one is beyond repair. He also says the hull should be caulked or else we’ll start taking in water by the time we’re 500 miles out to sea, but I just had the hull caulked before we left Spain so I know he’s jerking my chain.

October 28
Today is October 28, 1492.

October 29
Having sailed off from Santiago three days ago we have just seen our first bit of land. The natives here are of fair complexion and speak a somewhat fluent dialect of Portuguese. They dress in Christian clothes and have developed customs not too unlike our own. I suspect that a Portuguese expedition claimed this area already and deposited its missionaries here some time ago.*

*(The longitude and latitude for this island as recorded by Columbus in his log would indicate that this island was actually Portugal). — E.d.l.C.

November 2
Have sighted a large land mass that I’m sure is China.*

*(Given the distance travelled this was probably France). — E.d.l.C.

November 8
Have travelled 600 miles in the last week. There is no sign of land.

November 10
This is sooooo boring. Not at all as I expected.

November 11
Passed a distant volcano which was in full eruption and put on quite a display. The men, ignorant of such things, were quite afraid until I calmed them down and explained to them that I had seen many such volcanoes and that there was nothing to fear from the smoking mountain that was a good twenty leagues away. I’m in the middle of nowhere with a crew of morons.

November 14
The men are getting horny.

November 16
To engage the crew I have taken to starting the ship on fire and then having them put it out. They have gotten very good at this, and should a fire break out that I didn’t start I think we could handle it.

November 17
The voyage thus far has been long and tedious. Writing in my log each day has become an annoying affair and I have decided to just make stuff up.

November 18
The men are all afraid we’re going to sail off the edge of the world, but I know this to be nonsense as the edge is in the other direction.

November 19
I’m getting a cold. I’m sure of it.

November 20
Have sailed 117 miles today but told the crew it was only 90 so they would not feel they were so far away from home. This calmed them. The fact that his minuscule deception could actually make any difference to anyone is testament to the fact that the crew are complete boobs.

November 22
We’re hopelessly lost. We’re all going to die. This is not my fault.

November 23
Have sighted land.

November 24
No. Never mind. My fault.

November 25
Have sighted land. Will take the long boats out on an excursion to the shore. I still do not understand why the long boats are called “long” when they’re actually shorter than the regular boat.

November 26
The natives all ran away when they saw us. They seem a peaceful people and are all buck naked.

November 26, still
Have explored this island of unsurpassed fertility–which in your majesty’s and Mrs. Majesty’s honor I have named El Viagro. It has a lot of sand and trees and stuff, and all sorts of plants, but I don’t know what any of them are. Your majesty may wish to send along a botanist on any future voyage. There are no four-legged animals here except for a species of frightfully monstrous, screaming, diabolically horned wolves.*

*(Or goats) — E.d.l.C.

November 26, still again
The natives here have told me of an island 20 leagues SW where the people have faces like dogs and they cut off their victim’s heads and eat them and then cut off their genitals–their victim’s, not their own. I’m sure this is all nonsense and have decided not to bother going there.

November 26, three minutes later
The natives also speak of an island due west which is inhabited entirely by seven-foot tall women who wear brassieres made of solid gold. This seems a logical possibility so Fred and I have decided to explore it for the good of your majesty and God who loves us and for the glory of Spain which God loves cuz God loves a workin’ man.

November 27
Found none of the above mentioned inhabitants on said island. Found a serpent in a lagoon and Fred killed it and we ate it. It tasted like snake.

November 27
Explored a large cave on the coast and fell down and skinned my knee.

November 27
Back on the ship we saw a mermaid riding a dolphin and playing a sackbut. She waved. We waved back. Really.

November 28
Weighed anchor at dawn. It’s about 500 pounds. Tomorrow we will weigh the Master-at-Arms.

November 28
The crew of the Pinta has mutinied and changed its name to the Pina Colada. They think this is very amusing.

November 29
The Pina Colada is taking in water. Ha ha.

November 29
The crew of the Nina has mutinied again even though there is no one on board to mutiny against. Idiots all. They have changed the name of their vessel to the Tia Maria. They think this is very amusing. They are very noisy and no one can get any sleep as they play their stereo very loud till way past midnight. During the day they sing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” and when they get to the end they start all over—which is just an insane thing to do—and if God would see fit to have them eaten by a monster I could live with it.

November 32*

*(Probably not) — E.d.l.C.

The ship’s surgeon has died. I and the crew are all deeply concerned as we now have no one to make fun of.

December 2
The daylight is getting shorter, and the nights longer.*

*(Duh). — E.d.l.C.

December 8
The front end of the Pina Colada fell off. I have no idea how it happened but I’m sure it’s not my fault.

December 10
I just know in the future people are going to say wonderful things about me. And then they’ll start saying really bad things. And then, after a while, they’ll say really nice things again…and then bad things…and then nice things. And it will never end. It will just go on and on and on and on and despite all of my dreams and goals, I’ll become just an icon for political agendas. I have no idea what I just said. I’m really sauced. The natives make this beer out of clam mucus and they gave us some for half a carton of damp Pall Malls. Whoa.

December Something
Sailed SSW for 6 miles and ENE for a league then NSW for a good hour until changing to SE till dawn. I’m so hung over.

December 12
Assisted in the repairs of the Pina Colada. I got a splinter.

December 16
Have taken the “long” boats and set foot upon which I assume is Jamaica, and in the name of your majesty have renamed it Tapioca.

December 17
The natives all ran away from us. They have the initiative of a door mat. They are all buck naked except for tennis shoes that they wear on their ears. They are an incredibly docile people and I’m sure if your majesty was to send just one Catholic nun armed only with a crossbow in here she could have the whole group whipped into shape in a day and make damned fine Christians of them.

They have a habit of smoking cannabis. They have no industry: they don’t farm or hunt as I can tell. As mentioned they don’t wear clothes. They don’t fight amongst themselves, nor do they involve themselves in prolonged conversations. As far as I can tell they don’t do anything except sit on the beach and point at random objects and giggle.

Their primary food source is something they make themselves–which is the only thing they seem to do–and is a small round object of what I believe is some sort of vegetable matter soaked in animal fat. They consume a great many of these at one sitting though in a leisurely manner. They call them quakeekees.*

*(An Arawak word meaning cookies) — E.d.l.C.

Though communication with these people is difficult, we usually make ourselves understood through signs and with the help of natives from previous islands who have “volunteered” to come with us on our further exploration. The natives here have told me that on the large island of Bohio there is either a lot of cannabis or a lot of cannibals, and I’m not sure which one they mean, but they have suggested I go there nonetheless. The native interpreters we have with us haven’t been much help in this matter. When asked to clarify they are inclined to shrug their shoulders and snicker.

December 18
The island has many fine cafes that allow you a bit of peace out of the rain.*

*(It’s uncertain here if Columbus meant caves or if he was waxing poetic, or if he was drunk and referring to somewhere else). — E.d.l.C.

December 20
Met King Quaheekanalee, who seems to be in charge of this place. He treated me to a fine banquet made up of yams, baked yams, and yams with holes in them. He was a fascinating fellow and I think the thing about him that struck me most was the fact that he was buck naked. You gotta’ love these people.

December 21
Sailed WSW for four hours until realizing the wind was blowing ESE and we hadn’t actually moved and were still in the harbor. I immediately ordered the ship to come about and pick up the eastern wind. Made good time for two minutes until we ran aground on the beach.

December 24
Have landed on another island. The natives here are quite advanced. They have spears with sharpened bone tips and they put feathers in their hair. The women all have conch shells covering their private parts. All the men have a good understanding of calculus. They have no religion but are heavily into cubism.

December 25
The men are getting sick. The boatswain has cholera. Most of the stevedores have influenza. All of the knaves have scurvy.

December 27
I am ready to sail for home. But before I leave, King Quahee-whatever says he must meet with me when the sun is low. I don’t know what time this is supposed to be since it’s low in the morning and in the evening so I’ll assume it’s whatever time I get up.

December 28
The King says that theres’ a great island 90 miles northeast of Cuba which is 3,000 miles wide and 3,000 miles in depth. What a moron.

Guitar World is a faraway place inhabited by a people who come in all different hues, and congregate in little tribes with amusing names, and who do not worship the almighty dollar. What they do worship is immediate gratification. It’s a simple land made up of simple people. There is no affirmative action in Guitar World. There is no public assistance in Guitar World. There’s no Endowment for the Arts, no scholarships, no medical insurance, no dental plan, no unemployment insurance, no handicapped parking, no weekends off, and no holidays. What there is in Guitar World is macaroni and cheese. And booze.

In Guitar World you are valued solely for what you can contribute to the group and nothing else. Being nice, or being not nice, is not really an issue as far as the other group members are concerned. And no one really cares about the inner you. Which I’m okay with. Getting to know the likes and dislikes of your bandmates is not a priority on anybody’s list of things to accomplish on any given day. Even though you may belong to the same tribe, most people in Guitar World would rather not know anything about you. It’s kind of like being in Reservoir Dogs. Consequently the only personal criticism—unrelated to music—that you might be subject to would be your preference for Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, which would be simply expressed with, “Geez, you drink that?” Any suggestions for better quality beer that you might appreciate would not be forthcoming since it’s a given that you’re hopeless and could never possibly change. But you play well.

On the flip side, and following on that last sentiment, any compliment you might receive, you’ll know to be sincere. And these compliments are given in the most efficient manner, most commonly with just the word, “Nice,” after you’ve done something musical that even surprised you.

And while your bandmates don’t care about the inner you, they do care about the outer you since you are an important cog in a machine that has very few parts, and consequently they will go out of their way to make sure you don’t end up damaged. For example, should you be shooting pool between sets with one of the locals who has a gardening shears at the end of his arm instead of hand, and the two of you end up in a heated discussion as to whether or not the cue ball—which you shot—made contact with one of his object balls prior to making contact with your object ball, you can count on your bandmates to leave their places at the group table and come up along side of you, in front of you, and behind you, and explain to your opponent in a very threatening tone that you’re both drunk and mentally slow, and apologize on your behalf while shunting you back to the table, calming you down with a supportive, “Are you stupid or what?”

One of the great learning experiences one will encounter in Guitar World is the art of compromise, particularly in the initial stages of one’s musical career when you’re young. Unfamiliar with all the citizenry of Guitar World, you’ll find yourself gravitating to anybody you happen know who wants to start a rock a roll band including someone who plays a bassoon. Also, in the early going it’s a rare thing for two people in the group to be equally talented and consequently you have to acknowledge the fact that somebody’s tolerating you as much as you’re tolerating their cousin who can only play maracas–and then only one at a time—but is in the band because they happen to own the P.A. system.

But things are not always harmonious as there is oftentimes discord. This is somewhat fueled by everyone’s natural born talent at being blunt. For example, a request for you to do something will never start with the traditionally polite, “Would you mind,” unless the intent is sarcasm.

While tensions and dissimilar personalities can cause the breakup of any band, more often than not this dissolution is caused by an evolutionary process based solely on talent. As time goes on, the initial “one for all and all for one” sense of compromise withers, and as musicians cross paths with other musicians, the cream of the musical crop gravitate towards each other and form bands like, well, Cream. Others who are not in that upper echelon gather together like bachelor elephants and end up playing in Pete Best’s wedding band.

I was very dutiful when it came to practicing guitar but somewhere along the way I started to drift away from it. I think it was when I realized my fingers had all the nimbleness of a steel-tined rake. And so I started writing songs. I wrote about a hundred. Unfortunately only two of them have words given my disinclination to emote, and the lyrics for those are only slightly less obscure than I Am the Walrus as I’m generally uncomfortable singing about my “feelings”. I’m fine singing about somebody else’s feelings and pretending they’re mine, but actual mine, no. I’m a Pisces. It’s our nature to suffer in silence. When faced with pain and heartache we don’t emote, we implode.

So I lived in Guitar World for part of my life. It had its ups and downs but overall I found it a wonderfully financially unstable experience. I have to say it’s exhilarating to have people crowd around you and applaud what you’re doing. Of course, people crowd around an organ grinder’s monkey and applaud what it’s doing too, so you always kind of have that in the back of your mind. In any case, I wasn’t good enough to spend the rest of my life in Guitar World which is why at the age of thirty I found myself in–

Office World.

Office World is much, much different than Guitar World. I mentioned that in Guitar World nobody really cares about the inner you. Not so in Office World. For example, in Office World you will always come across an old institution called “Tell Us About Yourself.” This usually takes place during a routine monthly meeting where a large section of the company is gathered to view Power Points of random numbers that nobody understands the relevance of, but which you are required to applaud anyway even if they’re bad because you’re a trained seal. But after that comes “Tell Us About Yourself,” along with your corporate badge picture up on the big screen for all to see. This is where you suddenly feel like you’re wearing only a loin cloth and standing on the floor of the Roman Coliseum. You hope this goes well. You assure yourself it will. Ha ha.

Should you be selected to contribute to this part of the meeting, there’s a few standard questions that you’re required to answer beforehand so that your coworkers will have insight into the real you:

The first question is “What do you like to do in your spare time when not at work?” Now, the thing you most enjoy doing in your spare time could be making papier-mâché hats for your collection of shrunken heads, and stating this will definitely provide personal insight to your coworkers while at the same time act as a beacon to those employees with similar interests. Unfortunately there’s only one answer you’re allowed to submit here and that is, “Hanging out with family and friends.” It’s important that you answer in this manner so that everyone is aware that you have family and friends and that in the event of some personal tragedy you may encounter, you have a support group somewhere, which lets your coworkers off the hook in terms of having to be concerned about you as well as concerned because of you should it turn out you’re some sort of unstable loner who already has three complaints in their Human Resource file and they’ve only been employed by the company for an hour and consequently probably won’t make it all the way to the end of the meeting. And security is on lunch.

The second question is always “What was the most important moment of your life?” You might first consider the day the pope’s car broke down outside your house and you let him sleep on the couch and in gratitude he made you breakfast the next morning and signed an official document authorizing your eventual canonization, but there’s only one answer allowed here too, and that is, “The day my child was born.” Actually, it’s not so much of what’s allowed as you having no other choice whether one is allowed or not. Somebody is going to say the child thing, and once they do, you have nowhere else to go. If people know you’re a parent and you don’t follow suit, they will assume your insertion of “My trip to Spain” is because your child has three sixes on the back of his head. This perception can be detrimental to your progression up the corporate ladder.

The last question is one that actually will allow you a lot of freedom of choice. This will be “What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?” Everybody in attendance gears up for the answer on this because they’re really bored and are hoping to hear something like “scraping barnacles off the U.S.S. Nimitz” or “joining the Forestry Department’s Teen Summer project and sewing zippers on trees.” Alas, everybody’s crappy jobs are pretty lame and it’s the same humdrum routine that all teenagers have to lend themselves to. But that’s not to say the worst job question doesn’t have a purpose. It most certainly does. The whole point in management having everyone at one time or another answer the “What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?” question is to see which employees say, “This one.” It’s all a part of culling the herd.

Another thing you’ll come across in Office World is “Team Building.” These are group activities that you’ve generally shied away from in your private life because you know there’s a good chance they’ll get you killed or hospitalized. Two things here would be walking on hot coals (which builds confidence) and falling backwards so that your coworkers can catch you (which builds trust). While nobody will tell you this is part of the rules, it’s important to note that you are allowed to say, “I’d rather not,” when it comes time for your turn. As a matter of fact, I think that’s actually the test, to see if you’ve got the intelligence and wisdom to not involve yourself in something this stupid. Keep in mind also that the long-term positive effects of these exercises are non-existent, and that even though your coworker might catch you as you fall backwards, that won’t stop them from filing a sexual harassment complaint against you next week when you have the temerity to say, “Hey, nice shirt.”

But Office World has its upside, like free health and dental insurance along with a bi-weekly paycheck. On the downside, though, if your company is not able to compete in the “dog eat dog,” “rat race,” “ferret festival” world that is American capitalism, nor is immune to national economic factors and downturns, your organization will crash and burn and you’ll be outside in a breadline. So if job security is what you crave, you’ll want to investigate Office World’s distant cousin–

Non-Profit World.

Yes! This might just be the place for you, because in Non-Profit World your whole reason for existing (raisin debt tray, as they say in France) is doing “good works.” Making money is not only unnecessary, but is actually frowned on. As a matter of fact, your organization’s hemorrhaging of money can be the sole cause for America’s international credit rating dropping from triple A to C+ and no one will give a hoot provided the political party that OK’d your budget for last year still holds a Senate majority this year.

And not only is your organization protected, but on a personal level you are too. For example, let’s say right after you got hired, you brought a Weber grill to work and set it up in your cube. You’ve since been warned on several occasions that you can’t grill barbecued chicken in your cube during office hours but you continue to do so. Administration now has to put their foot down. You will be called into the Human Resources’ office and told that the company feels they have to terminate you. Immediately after this is stated, your Human Resource person will ask, “Is that okay with you?” This then is your opportunity to reply, “No,” in which case nobody can do anything to you and you can return to your cube and put some corn on.

You need to be aware, though, that the people who run Non-Profit World have their limits in regard to your continued employment. Should you stop showing up forever just once, you’ll be history.

Diversity is very, very important in Non-Profit World, and due to the absence of evil capitalistic notions of what constitutes a successful organization, the positiveness of diversity can be installed and appreciated by all. It’s critical that there be a representation of white people, black people, Asian people, other people of color whose color is not in the Crayola Crayon starter eight pack, gay men, lesbians, gay lesbians, people married to other people of a different race, people who might be referred to as differently abled based on their inability to do things way better than others, people who are trans-gendered, trans-racial, trans-fat, trans-Atlantic, short people trapped in the body of a tall person, swans trapped in the body of a duck, and my own personal group and cross to bear–people who are Duane Allman trapped in the body of Buster Poindexter. Ideally you should have as diverse a group as possible, and if they all voted for Obama in 2012, that’s even better. It’s also very important to not just have a token representation of each one of these groups, for that would be shallow and transparently so; rather, it’s appropriate to have at least two people from each group so that each member of the respective groups will have someone to go to lunch with.

The one drawback to Non-Profit World is that you will occasionally come across a manager or administrator who seems to have been put there after having gone through what can only be termed as an “extraordinarily democratic process.” This is often the result of some capitalist business type up at the top of the food chain who’s got their squid tentacles sucked onto your little communist enterprise and is taking a self-serving, though seemingly broad-minded stand, for the purpose of winning the Man Of The Year Award from Time magazine, Newsweek, Guns and Ammo, Balloons Weekly, PETA, the Elks Club, or anybody who might be giving one away. While believing that “economic gain” is referenced somewhere in the Beatitudes and having lived his life accordingly, this person will nonetheless rationalize the installation of a squirrel as your superior based on the concept that “it couldn’t possibly do any damage since we’re not trying to make any money here anyway.” Which is actually not true–it can do a lot of damage–but you can’t really tell them that. Try it. Nonetheless, at least you’ll be able to identify this new person, after about a week as their subordinate, when you realize their decision making process involves a miniature roulette wheel that occupies the upper part of their head (you’ll hear the clicks).

Unfortunately I’ve found these folks to be the norm. But to all the other folks, who are not the norm, who are not just going through the motions of doing good works and who are actually trying to make a system work, I tip my hat. You can, indeed, win. The success of any civilization is dependent on its consideration of others, and not its gross national product nor the maintaining of stasis and buoyancy of self. A little more socialism in America, and a little more individual focus and effort by some to achieve it, would serve all of us well. And if I may, I’d like to help start this expansion by suggesting the Wallace Foundation pony up for an Endowment for Semi-Adept Musicians. Thank you.

]]>https://uallenplum.com/2017/03/31/work-world-a-personal-odyssey-and-observation/feed/0rhaichenpageant-egr conveyor A3Einstein At The Officehttps://uallenplum.com/2017/03/24/einstein-at-the-office/
https://uallenplum.com/2017/03/24/einstein-at-the-office/#respondFri, 24 Mar 2017 17:32:39 +0000http://uallenplum.com/?p=530]]>Einstein’s Theory of Gravitational Pull says that if an object is falling, and you’re inside it, you will also be falling, and at the same rate of speed. I learned this in a book called Seven Brief Lessons On Physics by Carlo Rovelli. It was the only thing in the book I understood. Despite that, it’s going on my list of all-time favorite books given that it was only 81-pages long. Length is how I measure the quality of all books. Consequently Ulysses and Harry Potter and the Chamber Pot of Doom, or whatever it’s called, are terrible. So don’t read them. But it is why Kurt Vonnegut has always been my favorite author: His books are short, the typeface large, and sometimes there are drawings—and sometimes a single drawing is designated as one entire chapter. You can’t beat that in terms of wanting to have a sense of accomplishment, especially if your goal for accomplishment is to read one chapter of a book a day.

But getting back to Einstein, outside of his lucid explanation of how gravity works, I don’t understand anything else he ever said. Or did. Which makes me wonder what he did when he was at the office. I can’t help assuming there must have been at least one occasion when his employer said, “Hey, Einstein, while you’re preoccupied with your thoughts do you think you could grab a broom and clean up a little?” I believe what he did was write formulas, publish them, and then giggle about it. Let’s take his most famous formula of E = mc2. This means energy equals mass multiplied by the speed of light squared. None of those things go together. For example, even if you were able to square the speed of light, how do you multiply that by, say, a hide-a-bed? A hide-a-bed would be an example of mass. This is a completely useless formula. It has no practical value. To evidence this, I’ll ask when was the last time you had this conversation with your wife, where she knocked on the bathroom door while you were in the shower:

Her: Honey! I’m making energy! Is the speed of light squared or cubed!? I don’t remember!

You: Uhhhh! I think it’s squared!

Her: Are you sure!?

You: Think so!

Her: OK! Hope you’re right!

But since no normal person could make any sense out of Einstein’s formula, they assumed he was the smartest person in the world. Years later this reputation as smartest person ever was cemented when he followed up his famous E = mc2 with the equally astonishing K = 11. These two pronouncements made him the first and only celebrity physicist, and he quickly became the darling of the jet set and was invited to all sorts of Hollywood parties (there is of course the well-known anecdote from this time where Einstein met Marilyn Monroe at one of these parties and she said, “Dr. Einstein, with my looks and your brain, can you imagine what wonderful children we would have?” to which Einstein famously responded, “You’re a terrible actress, you know that?” (rimshot! Classic.)

Another thing that annoys me is when these people—physicists—start talking about the universe. They say there are a billion trillion galaxies and each galaxy contains a billion trillion stars, and the light from the nearest one to us took four years to get here. I say this to physicists: Stop making stuff up. I saw this woman physicist on television once (I sense that some people may find the term “woman physicist” offensive, and if so then I apologize. I’m trying to be inclusive and not patronizing as I don’t know any women physicists and so wanted only to give this woman her due. Perhaps that’s still not okay. Again, I apologize. Just noting what I was watching. My intent was to include and not patronize). So anyway, I saw this dress-wearing, rather effeminate physicist on television once and her thing was to prove that motion makes things curve. The point being that the spinning Earth makes things curve. So she stands on a playground carousel holding a basketball, and the cameraman is on the opposite side, and another crew person pushes the carousel into a circular motion, and the physicist throws the basketball to the cameraman, and—voila!—the ball curves to the left!

Well, duh! The camera is moving away from the ball! This is why it looks like the trajectory of the ball is curved! The ball is going straight! It’s the position of the camera guy that’s curving! Duh! Again. Did you get your physics degree from Bob Collins University or what?

So as shameful as that was, there is nonetheless this “fact” that not only do basketball passes bend but so does light. Yes, light. Imagine. This I also “learned” from the book. Of course, I know it’s not true. You can prove it’s not true too. Take a laser pointer and point it at some random point on your carpet. Now quickly flick the beam to another location, then quickly flick the beam back to the original location. What you’ll actually discover is that your cat thinks this is just great. This is really good for at least twenty minutes of fun and exercise for both you and your cat. But you’ll notice the light never bends no matter how much wrist torque or quickness you apply. So there you are: Scientists are liars.

All of this is quite disappointing. For a long time I’d considered myself to be a strong believer in science. This is because I eventually had problems with the other great mystery of life—God. I was raised with God. Then at about fourteen years of age I said, “Wait a minute—we used to talk to animals? People rose from the dead? Women got pregnant without having sex? All of the species of animals in the world were within a one-mile radius of Noah’s house? Somebody lived inside a whale? Shrubbery talked? Jesus fed five thousand people with five loaves of bread and two fish and nobody there said, “What am I going to do with a raw fish and also why are there no Port-O-Sans here?” And so I gravitated to science. But I must say, upon thorough examination, as much trouble as I have accepting the concept of an intelligent being looking out for us and having created the universe, I’m equally flummoxed by the scientific idea that once upon a time there was absolutely nothing, and then it exploded. How is that possible? How does nothing explode? Was the nothing made in China? What?

OK. Maybe I’m just dense. Maybe the physicists and scientists and theologians aren’t lying. Maybe I’m just incapable of faith or understanding. I do not understand the concept of the universe and I do not understand the concept of God. Sadly these are things beyond my reach, beyond my grasp. However, in my defense, I will say that I get all the jokes on the TV show The Big Bang Theory, and it makes me laugh. Also, whenever I hear “O’ Come, O’ Come, Emanuel” on the radio around Christmas time I get a feeling of calm peace. So, in regard to being able to embrace either of the two greatest realities of life, I’m considering this close enough. I’m good.

]]>https://uallenplum.com/2017/03/24/einstein-at-the-office/feed/0rhaichenIMG_0069The Chinese Handkerchief Trickhttps://uallenplum.com/2017/03/14/the-chinese-handkerchief-trick/
https://uallenplum.com/2017/03/14/the-chinese-handkerchief-trick/#respondTue, 14 Mar 2017 02:16:07 +0000http://uallenplum.com/?p=524]]>I’ve invented a magic trick. I did not get this out of a magic book but, rather, invented it on my own. I’m very proud of it. Here’s how it goes: I take a plastic white Bic lighter and put it in my pocket. Now I take my new blue handkerchief with the traditional paisley design and put it in the same pocket. Now, what you do is close your eyes for, like, a week. Now you open your eyes, I withdraw the Bic lighter, and the previously white lighter is now blue! Ta da!

Yes, I was as amazed as you would have been had you been standing here watching me perform this fantastic trick. When I first noticed this magical transformation of the Bic lighter, I thought, “Wow, I wonder if the dye in this thing is as toxic as it is unstable.” I unfurled the handkerchief to see where it was made, knowing full well already where that was. But imagine my surprise when I saw in proud and bold print “Made In The U.S.A.” I knew we Americans had been coloring cotton since before the Revolutionary War, and I was under the impression that we had this process mastered which is why were able to next tackle the steam locomotive and whistling tea kettle (probably not in that order though). So I was taken aback, to say the least, upon seeing that we still hadn’t gotten this dyeing business down. But then I looked closer. and in teeny-tiny, itty-bitty print right underneath “Made In The U.S.A.” it said “with imported material.” So, the textile mills and all the workers are in China, but the homeless person who was given a pair of scissors to cut a thousand square yards of cheaply made cloth into 14-inch squares lives right here. So, made in America. There you go.

I am constantly on the prowl for anything made in America. I’m willing to spend more to support American industry. And the reason I feel so strongly about supporting American industry is because I feel it compensates for when I go to the pet store and buy cat food and the cashier points out the little question under my purchase total which she then reads to me saying, “Would you like to contribute to animal welfare?” And I say, “I just did,” and I take the bag from her and leave; and the fact that I never put money in the Santa Claus bucket; nor give out candy on Halloween; nor say polite things abut the poor. Yes, this is why I support American industry–basically to avoid getting a visit from Jacob Marley’s ghost on Christmas Eve.

But in my ongoing search for things American there is no end to the con job being perpetrated upon us by the spin monkeys of industry who are eager to unload their Chinese-made inventory. I was in Home Depot looking for a wide bucket that you could fit a normal broad-head mop in. And I found one, several actually. But what caught my eye on one in particular were the words “in the U.S.A!” Closer inspection of this proud statement allowed me to see that it said “Assembled in the U.S.A!” No doubt this bucket contract paid off in spades for both members of the American Handle Attachers Union.

Another favorite hoodwinking that I see all the time, and I’m sure you do too, is “Engineered In The U.S.A!” This means the company hired an American who owns their own ruler and mechanical pencil to draw their product, then they sent the drawing to a penal colony in Szechuan province for the actual construction.

Even when the distributor of random crap is not being totally dishonest about saying in what quality-control-challenged country (China) their product was made in, they’ve come up with this ingenious idea of telling you where it was made in a language you don’t understand. Like French. Or if you live in France, English, I assume. For the longest time I thought “Fabrique en Chine” meant “Fabric May Go In Machine,” meaning it didn’t have to be hand washed, which for me was a big inducement to buy it. But then I saw the same tag show up on hammers and I realized I had been misled.

So now that we are aware of this chicanery, how might we benefit from knowing it? Actually, we can’t. The main reason we can’t is because we have people like the CEO of Walmart, Arnold “The Icepick” Provolone, making grand pronouncements, such as that made in 2015, that “We will be more than happy to buy from American manufacturers if they offer us the same price as the foreign competitors.” Well, that’s saintly. What Arnold is saying is that if the price is the same, and somebody can get the product to Walmart faster–based on the fact that it doesn’t have to cross the ocean, which also means thirty percent of the cargo won’t be rotted from mold–Walmart will support American industry. God bless them. Unfortunately that’s not going to happen since our people here are paid $9 an hour and the people over there are paid in sesame seeds.

On New Year’s Eve of 2016, I made my first and only New Year’s resolution. I vowed to buy American or do without. At the end of the year all I’d been able to purchase was a garden hose and gum. So I’m afraid I’m going to have to throw in the towel on my Buy American Only campaign. But how do I, and you, faced with a dearth of American-made goods from which to choose, avoid having to buy terrible Chinese stuff that too often has the life expectancy of a mayfly and smells like the exhaust pipe on an idling UPS truck? (really, how do you make a basketball smell bad?)

I have a plan. You can try it too. Buy things made in Vietnam, Cambodia, India, Taiwan, Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Mexico. They’re darn proud of the stuff they make and they’ll tell you straight up where it came from. And not only will you be raising their standard of living, you’ll be doing a huge service to the Chinese people too by helping to clean up the air in Beijing by eventually causing the collapse of their industrial revolution. Some day those Chinese people will thank you. At least the ones that make it into their thirties. This should also bode well for the people of North Korea when the Chinese economy fails and China is forced into cutbacks, meaning they will no longer be able to afford to keep a pet country, and so will have to take Kim Jong-un out to the woods and let him go free. This will result in all the other North Koreans becoming free as well. I don’t know about you, but this is the route I’m taking going forward as I feel it’s the right thing to do. I’d like to think it will help. It may or may not. But if it doesn’t change the world at least the effort will prevent me from having to stay up all night being lectured by three holier-than-thou ghosts on Christmas Eve for not giving out candy to poor children and their pets on Halloween.

Five years ago Paula Poundstone came to town and Carra and I went to see her at the Barrymore Theater. She was hilarious. I have been a huge fan of hers since back in the 80s when I would see her frequently on the David Letterman show. Lately she’s been a panelist on the public radio show Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me and has also been on Garrison Keillor’s A Prairie Home Companion as a guest many times. Not only did her humor make me laugh way back in the 80s when I saw her on TV, but seeing her perform just made me happy, and when she was on, it would be the highlight of my week. I always felt there was a connection between us and I’m pretty sure the connection is the fact that we both have an A, E, L, P, N and two U’s in our name.

At the end of her show she said she would be having a meet-and-greet and she would be happy to sign copies of her book in the lobby. Here was a golden opportunity for me to meet someone I had long admired and get her autograph. Did I? Of course not, because that would have been illogical. “Why would I want someone’s signature?” I wondered. That makes no sense at all. “We’re all people. Why should someone’s signature be of more value than mine? We had a wonderful time at the show, and Paula was great, but this autograph business is unsupportable.”

And I felt good about this decision as I was leaving the theater, but the closer we got to the car the more I questioned it. When I got in the car and started the engine, a little fairy person appeared on my shoulder and said, “Boy, did you screw up. What the hell is the matter with you anyway?”

“I am logical,” I responded to the fairy.

“You’re a dumbass, if you ask me.”

“Giving worth to someone’s signature so that you may feel worth by simply possessing it denigrates one’s integrity, and actually one’s self-worth, which is the thing you’re trying to pump up. The only thing that would induce me to ask someone for their autograph is if I knew beforehand that they would give me their pen too.”

“Then why are you brooding?”

The fairy was right. I was brooding. And I didn’t know why.

My brooding continued for the following months. And then the months turned into years. Five years. I didn’t brood all the time, of course, only when I was watching television and I would see someone whose autograph I also didn’t have, which was every time I saw someone on television. These moments were painful reminders. One night I was overwhelmed by my inability to resolve this psychological conflict, and called out despairingly, “What am I supposed to do!”

It was then that the fairy appeared again. And the fairy asked me a profound question. And the question was, “What would Anthony Perkins do?”

Though not entirely certain where this was eventually to lead, the fairy had gotten my attention. Let me explain.

Several years ago I was watching a movie starring Anthony Perkins and Tuesday Weld. It was called Pretty Poison. I don’t remember what all happens, but that’s okay as the plot is completely irrelevant here. In the only scene I actually remember, which is why I remember the movie, Anthony Perkins comes into the kitchen of his modest apartment and stands by the counter. He looks off at nothing in particular. He’s thinking hard. He seems concerned, and he appears to be drawing a correlation between Tuesday Weld and the title of the movie he’s in. Then, ever so nonchalantly, still looking forward, he reaches into a large-sized open bag of potato chips that is sitting on the counter, removes one, and eats it.

“Are you kidding me!” I thought. “You can buy a whole big bag of potato chips and just eat them by yourself?!” This was amazing. This never would have occurred to me–because this is not how I was raised. When I was a child, if you wanted potato chips you had to wait for your parents to have a big party, and then your mother had to buy sour cream to make French’s onion dip, and the entire bag of chips had to be specially bought and ladled out by individual chips into a lead crystal bowl and remain perfectly undisturbed until the guests arrived, and then–and only then–could you have one. This new concept just boggled my mind. The idea that you could buy an entire bag of potato chips just for the hell of it was–up to that point–the most illuminating moment of my life. It was like I’d suddenly developed the Third Eye and could talk to dead Tibetans.

From that moment on I have always referred to this as the Perkins Pretty Poison Potato Chip Epiphany (a.k.a. 4PCE). But I was still puzzled as to why this part of my past was being brought up now. “What are you proposing?” I asked.

“Perhaps the depression perpetrated by the Paula Poundstone Predicament could be appeased by the employment of the Perkins Pretty Poison Potato Chip Epiphany, and thus provide peace.”

“So, you’re saying that I can…”

“Do…whatever…you…”

“Whatever I…”

“Want to do if…”

“If I…”

“Feel…like…”

“Feel like it’s appropriate.”

“No.”

“Feel like it’s a sound choice.”

“Still no.”

“Feel like it would benefit mankind.”

“Really?”

“Feel like toast.”

“Feel like it! Feel like it! You can do whatever you want because you feel like it! Routines don’t matter! How you were raised doesn’t matter! What is logical doesn’t matter! Just do what you think would make you happy! Good Lord.”

“Like buy potato chips.”

“Screw the potato chips! Get the big picture!”

I pondered the pixie’s point. Up until now all I had used 4PCE for was to make sure I had an ample supply of potato chips in the house. I now understood there were more expansive applications.

I felt good. I couldn’t rewrite the past, but at least I had psychological resolve. And to put a stamp on it, I said to Carra, “I know this is unlikely to ever happen, but if Paula Poundstone ever comes back to Madison, should by some stroke of fortune that should ever occur, I want to go see her, meet her, and get her autograph.”

“She was just here last October.”

“DAMNIT!”

“I thought you knew that.”

“DAMNIT!

“I would have mentioned it otherwise.”

“Ahhhhhh! I’m in hell again!

“Come on back to me. You can do it.”

“Ohhhhh the humanity! The horror….the horror.”

But then I found out that she was coming back to Madison in February, so everything was fine. (You know, you’d think somebody who tours the country for a living would schedule Arizona for the February part of her tour and not Wisconsin, but who am I to judge. Just saying).

Filled with my new-found sense of whimsy, I decided to take it one step further and send Paula a fan letter. Of course, I needed a logical reason for doing such a thing (I’m less rigid, not Boxcar Willie) so I made sure to ask if she would be having a similar meet-and-greet after her upcoming show. I mentioned in my letter that we had been to her show a few years back but unfortunately circumstances had prevented us from attending the meet-and-greet at the time (I omitted saying that the particular circumstance that prevented us from attending was the fact that I’m nuts).

In the emailed letter I said, “I imagine and hope you have better things to do than respond to this email, but perhaps you have a secretary, assistant, or significant helper who could respond in a terse though sufficient manner and just let me know if you plan to have a meet-and-greet after your show.” I then went on to relate an anecdote which coincidentally happened to be about her, and which is absolutely true (everything I write is true, so I suppose there is no need to include that statement. But this is really, really true):

“Back around 1996 I worked in a call center. The cracker jack support staff decided that it would be a great team-building exercise to have everyone in the company submit their favorite joke. These would be posted on a bulletin board. I selected your joke which went like this:

“Everybody in my family has a name that starts with a “P”. There’s me Paula, my father Patrick, my mother Penelope, and my little sister Piñata, who was beaten to death by a gang of festive Mexicans.

“I loved this joke.

“This joke was then typed up by the cracker jack support staff and posted like so:

“Everybody in my family has a name that starts with a “P”. There’s me Paula, my father Patrick, my mother Penelope, and my little sister who was beaten to death by a gang of Mexicans.”

Ho ho! What a knee slapper! So much better when you edit out the chaff. My coworkers used to look at me very oddly after that. I don’t know what they thought about Paula Poundstone.

But the mailroom minions (as they called themselves) for PP (as they called her) responded the very next day, which was very nice. They said she would be doing a meet-and-greet and there would also be the opportunity to get a photograph with her. They also said they enjoyed my story very much and would pass it onto PP.

I was happy to hear that there would be a meet-and-greet after her show again. Over the last two months, prior to the show, I had wondered at times what it was going to be like. Of course, I assumed it would be held in the Barrymore Theater’s salon, but also wondered if they would be serving finger sandwiches and Vienna sausages with toothpicks (or those little plastic swords, which would be way better) or if it would be a nicely catered affair. Would I be able to get a beer, or would they just have wine? Would the photographer be Paula’s personal photographer, or would it be someone from a local studio? And then, what would I say to her when she approached me and said, “Why, you’re the man who sent me that charming email. I was so anxious to come to Madison, hoping you’d be here and I could meet you.” I practiced many varied responses for this, some witty, some gracious and sincere.

The show ended. It was time for the meet-and-greet. We were encouraged by the security staff to form an organized heap by a couch in the lobby that I’m pretty sure was donated by one of the fraternities on Langdon street. I was to be person number two. I ran over my witty and gracious and sincere responses one last time, waiting for her to come out. And then, she came out. This is actually rather surreal seeing a person you’ve only seen on television actually standing there in front of you. Even if you see them live on stage, it’s not the same thing; that’s still their world. When they’re standing in the same lobby and on the same beer-stained carpet that you are, they’re now in your world. While many people would get excited and rush up to them and say, “I think you’re fabulous!” I would be inclined to say, “What are you doing here?”

The first thing that I took note of as Paula grabbed a pen from the cardboard table in the lobby where her audio books were, preparing herself for the session, was that she remained standing. Standing is the international body language signal for “FYI, I’m ready to leave now.” I knew things were going to move more quickly than I anticipated. It was also at this time that I realized the Barrymore Theater didn’t have a salon. And there would be no Vienna wieners.

Person number one advanced from the heap and moved to where Paula was. The two of them shook hands. Immediately I recognized a problem. I don’t like shaking hands. Was this hand shaking ceremony something that would be expected? Because I don’t like shaking hands. Let me back up a moment: I don’t like shaking hands. In my coat pocket I carry a little packet of dry soap sheets that can be reconstituted with water. I carry this solely for unavoidable hand shaking incidents. I would much prefer we as a planet adopt saluting in place of hand shaking. I would be even more agreeable to the Vulcan greeting that Leonard Nimoy used to do on Star Trek except that I’m really bad at it, which is why I’m in the saluting camp.

Person one departed and I was beckoned forward. She didn’t extend her hand and neither did I. So far so good. I handed her my book to autograph. She asked me my name. I had planned on answering this with, “Would you mind making it out to U. Allen Plum”, but at that moment I had a feeling that if I did the response would be, “I’m tired–don’t screw with me.” I was going to go with just “U” but then I anticipated her responding with, “Me?” and me saying, “No, U,” followed by her “What?” followed by the security people coming in closer. So what I ended up saying was something like “…murrrbb.”

Then she said, “I was supposed to go to New York but they’re snowed in so they cancelled my flight.”

I had absolutely no idea how I was supposed to respond to this. It completely confused me. I would have understood, “Hi, how are you doing? Not that I actually care,” to which I would have said, “Fine, thank you for asking,” because that’s what people are supposed to do. I felt this was clearly a breach of standard etiquette, thus my confusion, since I would have expected her to know better. I related this to Carra later and she told me that Paula was trying to make me feel comfortable by casually referencing something about a recent experience of hers for the purpose of conveying the idea that the two of us were equals. This is a completely alien concept to me. I mean, what’s the point of being famous if you’re going to treat everybody like they’re an equal? I wouldn’t. Would you? It was like I was sitting on Santa Claus’s lap and rather than him asking what I wanted for Christmas, instead said, “I had a dentist appointment on Thursday and it went pretty well.”

What is expected here in response?

Then again, maybe it was just a routine–an entire paragraph divvied up between fans. I’m thinking the first guy probably got, “I’m scheduled to play the Town Hall in New York,” then I got, “They cancelled my flight to New York due to snow,” and then the girl behind me got, “So, I’m going to go visit my relatives in Oak Park.” Naturally third girl would ask, “Why?” to which Paula would respond, “I’m sorry, your time’s up. Go ask the two guys that were just here.”

This I would understand.

But the ball was presently in my court following the cancelled flight statement. I tried to compose myself in order to keep the conversation going in an organic manner. And so after much previous rehearsing for the purpose of displaying intelligence and savoir faire, following her statement that the airport in New York had been shut down because of snow, my response to the greatest wit since Groucho Marx was, “Snow is bad.”

It was at this time that I realized that all the time I spent practicing how to be suave, witty, and charming would have been put to better use by just practicing how not to be an idiot.

She handed me back the book. I read the inscription. It said, “To Murb, Thanks, Love–Poml Pamdifh.” The first thing that occurred to me was that I should have perhaps asked her to print. Or maybe just asked for a business card, because I’m afraid in the future when I try to brag to guests that I have Paula Poundstone’s autograph, and I pull out the book, they’re going to stare at the page and say, “Where?” I’m thinking if nobody’s going to be able to tell whose name it actually is I might as well just go all the way with the fame thing and say it was signed by Pontius Pilate. (“See the two P’s? Yeah, right there.”)

The other thing that struck me about the inscription was her inclusion of the word “Love.” This I found alarming and I wondered if I had said or done something to lead her on. Did she misinterpret my remark about snow being bad? I couldn’t tell, but as noted previously, everything was moving much too quickly.

I did not forget the photo opportunity. And so I asked Paula if we could get a picture, and she was most agreeable. At this moment, after having agreed to the photo, I noticed she then had her right arm raised and slightly crooked. Observing this for a moment, I assumed she either was working out a cramp or she was pointing to something on the floor in an oddly theatrical manner. Upon further review, I now believe this was the signal for “Stand here and I’ll put my arm around your shoulder like in a normal two-person shot so the security guy with the spider web tattoo on his neck can take a picture of us.” This didn’t occur to me at the time because it wouldn’t occur to me in a gazillion years to put my arm around a complete stranger even if I was on the Olympic wrestling team (see hand shaking reference above). For some reason I thought she was of the same mindset. So I came around to her left. And we got a very nice picture, assuming you think “American Gothic” is a very nice picture. Some people do.

It was time to go and time for the next person to say hello to Paula. But I felt something remained missing. Then the fairy appeared on my shoulder again:

“Shake her hand.”

“It’s not my natural inclination and there’s no logical reason for doing it,” I said. “But something is missing. I don’ t know what to do.”

“What would Anthony Perkins do?” said the really annoying fairy.

“Not shake her hand and then spend the next five years wondering if that was the right choice?”

And then the fairy disappeared. There was no answer, no advice. I was on my own.

I extended my hand. Paula grasped it. Going back over thirty years, this person who had only been an image on a TV screen had always made me happy. I don’t entirely know why. But now I was holding her hand. And suddenly, I became unruffled me again. And I said to her something that was not only coherent, but something that I take pride in having said, because it was absolutely sincere, and it was perhaps all I ever wanted to, or needed to, say to her. I said, “Thank you. Take care.”

Carra and I walked into the night. I felt good. As we got back in the car I told her about how awkward some of the exchange with Paula had gone, likely due to me. Carra calmed my concerns by gently saying, “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure she’s used to dealing with weirdos all the time.”

It was the perfect thing to say. And it closed a perfect evening. After five years, my mission had been accomplished. But beyond just telling you that, I’m relating this story to you now in the hope that you can take a lesson from what I’ve learned so it might benefit you in the future. Because whenever you’re faced with a crossroads in life, whenever the direction you should take is unclear, always think to yourself, “What would Anthony Perkins do?” It worked for me. It can work for you.

When on November 8th America went to the polls and elected Donald Duck as president, I was horrified. The following day I was depressed and horrified. As of this writing I’m no longer depressed but I remain horrified and dismayed. I wasn’t all of these things because a cartoon had been elected president; I was all these things because I now realized that half the people in the country I live in believe in things that aren’t true and don’t believe in things that are true because the untrue things are more interesting to believe in; and also because their concept of the entire world is that which exists within the boundary of their workplace, watering hole, and lawn mower shed; and because they spent a year and a half watching someone demonstrate beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was the most foul creation since Velveeta cheese, and they figured based on that he should run the country. Apparently he’s akin to Good King David, the slayer of the politico Goliath and the founder of a new great dynasty. Uh huh. And who’d like to play the role of Uriah in this biblical story?

Not me. That’s why I voted for the goofy communist lady that’s married to the Hindenburg.

But as I mentioned to friends at the time (okay, I have very few friends, okay one, and what I mean is I thought something out loud and one of the cats was in the room at the time, which I feel counts) thinking about the fifty million and not the individual, “It’s them that concerns me, not so much him.”

That was before he moved into the White House and found the Executive Order form booklet that Obama forgot to lock back up in the maid’s pantry–did you even know this Executive Order thing was a thing!? I didn’t, and I took Government in high school. So, we’re a system of checks and balances unless somebody decides they want to be dictator in which case everybody has to be okay with that? Apparently that’s how it works. And after a week of Duck Dynasty Executive Orders, the last one which I believe expelled the Jews from Spain, I’m now convinced that he–as well as the minions that put him there–are a threat to America and the rest of the world. Being an American I am now less safe than I was two weeks ago. And apparently the members of the Republican Party who are capable of objecting are not going to object. Instead they’re just going to watch the world melt and hope they don’t get messy, because objecting would damage their careers. And that’s the most important thing. They’re playing it smart because they are fully aware–as history has shown–that when things get complicated, dicey, and dangerous, whores always do really well (Wikipedia Salome and John the Baptist for further comparative reference).

I know previously I had said that I was going to move to Japan. However, I have found that this has some impractical aspects to it, one of which is the cats having to be put into quarantine for six months which I’m sure they’re not going to go for. It is because of this that I have therefore decided to secede from the Union. I know California is actually attempting the same thing, but they have to have a referendum and wait a couple years, and get a gazillion signatures, and deal with a whole lot of red tape. I on the other hand don’t have to do any of that because I don’t feel like it. And so as of this moment I’m declaring myself a sovereign nation. The name of this nation is Plumland. I was thinking of Plumania but that sounds like a mental disorder and that’s the thing I’m trying to distance myself from in seceding. I also considered Allen, thinking I could then be friends with Chad, but I don’t think anybody takes Chad seriously so I’m going with Plumland. I couldn’t come up with anything else that seemed appropriate, but I did give it a lot of thought. Well, not a lot of thought, but certainly more thought than did the people who named Newfoundland. That was just lazy. What if everybody had done that?

Plumland exists wherever I am and includes everything within a 100-foot radius. This includes up and down. For example, if I’m in the lobby of the Chrysler building, then the 11th floor would not be in Plumland. But if I’m in the elevator and have departed from the lobby and moved beyond the first floor, then it is. Even if I’m in, like, Sweden I would still be in Plumland. Also, as a moveable yet still sovereign nation, I would have diplomatic immunity, which means If I’m in Sweden I could spray paint “I Hate Sweden” on King Olaf’s tomb and nobody could do anything about it other than ask me to leave. So that’s a perk. Not that I would do that. I’m just saying I could if I wanted to. On the downside, as a new country I’m not yet entirely self-sufficient, which is why I have to still import all my food from America.

In case you want to visit Plumland (which actually you might not have a choice about, especially if I’m standing next to you) I have laid out the country’s core beliefs, which I’m working into some sort of pledge of allegiance. The draft goes thusly: “I believe–

1) That all people are created equal, except that about a third go bad by age ten and really should be kept in a separate storage facility.

2) The use of torture for the purpose of obtaining information from a potential enemy is wrong. Torture is defined as any continuous physical act committed upon a person that they would prefer you stop doing.

3) All individuals, whether they are Plumlandians or citizens of other nations including America, have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness unless the thing that makes them happy is something I find annoying.

4) If you can’t fit your truck into one parking space then you have to buy a smaller truck.

5) All immigrants should be thoroughly vetted by first being asked, “May I help you?” If there is no response, the next question should be, “Are you lost?” (preferably in a language other than English).

6) Freedom of speech is an unalienable right. But if you have something to say you need to raise your hand first. And try not to say something stupid. Also, keep in mind that silence is golden. And also nobody likes an idiot who knows their rights. Just FYI.

The capital of Plumland is My Livingroom. I’m not sure what I’m going to go with for a National Anthem but I’m leaning towards Seals’ and Crofts’ “Summer Breeze.”

So while I’m fine now, I realize that half of America (soon to be all of America) is still stuck between a rock and a giant cockroach until the the latter is convicted of treason or whatever heinous activity the Russians are able to verify, and sentenced to Leavenworth for the rest of his life, which could take months if not years. To avoid this sort of thing from happening in the future, with the next election, I would suggest that an alteration to the balloting system be put in place. This will be a lot easier than trying to fix the electoral college since nobody knows how it works in the first place, thus making fixing it difficult. What I propose is that there be one question at the top of the ballot. If you answer this question correctly, your vote counts. If you don’t answer the question correctly, your vote doesn’t count. Voters will never be told if they answered the question correctly or not, so everybody’s self-esteem will remain intact (apparently Democrats think this is really important. Whatever). This would be the question:

What ocean is next to California?

A) The Californian
B) The Mississippi
C) The Biggin’
D) Who Cares?
E) None of the above

Try this system and see if it doesn’t help improve the quality of people you elect as presidents. In the meantime, should you not want to wait for change, feel free to apply for citizenship in Plumland. There will be a test but it’s not too hard. You just have to memorize the words to “Summer Breeze.”

I have this big model train layout that I spent thousands of dollars on. It runs on the floor of the upstairs loft and then around the cathedral ceiling walls and out the window and around the neighbor’s house and then comes back into the living room. It has lots of little trees and little people and teeny plastic squirrels and very expensive engines and cars. The cats are not allowed anywhere near it. And this has been the case for five years. To keep the cats away from it I’ve engineered cardboard staircase coverings and a portable seven-foot door, and pretty much all the same sort of special security measures that Sigourney Weaver and her crew deployed in “Aliens” in order to keep the aliens out of their ping pong room. These are the “anti-kitty defense shields” and were developed very soon after Hurricane Henry demolished a good portion of my little train town of Duck Tape, Wisconsin several years ago.

So a couple months back Carra brought the cats over for the weekend, as is the usual routine. And for some reason I just didn’t feel like putting up the kitty defense shields. I gave it a lot of thought, weighed the pros and the cons, and finally concluded “whatever.”

Lionel (the cat, not the toy train company) is very subdued and dignified. But when he discovered he was suddenly allowed to go upstairs after five years of baying in vain at the foot of the stairs before the mighty cardboard door, he went banana cakes–running up and down the stairs, back and forth, up on the bed, under the bed, into the bathroom, in the the tub, back on the bed, bouncing on the bed, and closing with a snappy rendition of “The most wonderful thing about tiggers, is I’m the only one! Hey!”

And he’s actually been pretty good about staying off the shelves where the train is. So, yea.

Henry, on the other hand, has refused to come upstairs. We don’t know why. But he’ll sit on the living room floor and stare up at the loft, very still, with this creepy expression that seems to say, “I see dead people.” Perhaps it’s conditioning. Maybe five years of not being allowed upstairs has confused him, and he’s now responding the same way that Elsa the Lioness did in the movie “Born Free” when the Adamsons tried to release her into the wild and get her to be a self-sufficient hunter lion as opposed to what they had raised her as, which was a poodle. So while Carra and I are somewhat concerned about this fear that Henry has about coming upstairs, Lionel is delighted by it. They are a competitive pair, you see. While they often take turns playing Lion and The Obnoxious Wildebeest Who Turns His Stereo Up Really Loud Therefore Deserving Whatever Fate May Befall Him (in my home nature is not cruel, it is just), there are as many times when it’s not play but pretty much for real. The problem here is that Henry outweighs Lionel considerably. Henry is in the heavyweight division and Lionel is in the middleweight division, so when they mix it up it’s kind of like a fight between Jack Dempsey and Sugar Ray Dustin Hoffman. But now Lionel has an entire floor to himself where he can look down at Henry and say “Neener neener.” So he’s thrilled.

The cats actually have their own apartment. It’s the TV room but there are high, broad shelves all around the walls that are designed just for them to hang out on. It has ramps and bridges and little stairs going this way and that, all securely screwed into the walls. It’s not so much a TV room anymore as a 3D replica of an M.C. Escher painting. It also has a “fort” way up high (a 36 by 18-inch wooden box with a long and narrow window slit that allows for observation of all below and “invisibility” simultaneously). Henry has taken over the fort and spends his Sundays sleeping in there. We felt as though Lionel should have a fort too so I spent about sixteen hours constructing fort number two (four hours of actual construction, twelve hours trying to find a stud). Lacking room, I had to pitch the walkway going up to fort number two at a sixty degree angle. We had to push Lionel up it, and then when he came down he slid, so he was not pleased. I re-engineered it and made the angle forty-eight degrees. And I carpeted it, so that he could dig his claws in. Unfortunately it was still not slide resistant. And he couldn’t go up it, except with the push, because he’s the only cat in the world that needs pitons and carabiners to climb something. I toyed with the idea of an elevator but at $4,000 I felt this was not cost efficient, and I should probably have one for myself first. So I took the second ramp apart and built little steps.

You may ask why I do this. Why do I go through all this trouble for the cats? I’ll tell you why. Because when I build things for the cats, it means I don’t have to write. Writing is way harder than nailing stuff together. This is why there are more professional carpenters in America than there are professional writers. If you ask an adequate sample of carpenters (1,000), they’ll tell you right off that they like nailing stuff together way more than writing about nailing stuff together. Personally I have a long history of nailing stuff together, going all the way back to my childhood when I built the first and only 8 by 4-foot airplane-shaped, four-wheeled skateboard. She was a beaut. I see Microsoft Word is telling me that “beaut” is misspelled, so I’ll say she was a butte. And apparently that’s correct, because the red squiggly line is gone. Except that I know it’s not correct. These are the types of annoying issues one has to deal with when writing, but which never come up when nailing stuff together.

I take pride in the things I build, but I also believe taking pride in the things you build can be overdone, which is why my two mottos when it comes to home carpentry projects are (1) “Don’t sweat the small stuff–and it’s all small,” and (2) “Anything worth doing is worth doing now–right now, and we want to be done by seven o’clock because that’s beer and brandy time, so don’t get all sorts of goofy ideas about “varnishing” and “sanding” and “removing the bent nails” and all that hoity-toity time-wasting nonsense.” When it comes to homemade furniture I believe the emphasis should be put on its functionality, not how safe it is to use.

The little steps proved to work well. Of course, Lionel didn’t want to use them at first, showing little interest in the whole operation, but we were able to successfully encourage him to climb the steps and investigate his new personal fort by putting a cheese sandwich in it along with a record player and some old 45s and a princess phone and a copy of Entertainment Weekly For Cats. He then found it interesting.

Henry on the other hand was not amused. Clearly this new construction was to be his Saturday fort which made him wonder what Lionel was doing in it. We could see there was much computation going on in Henry’s head as he looked up at Lionel, looked at us, looked at the wall, looked at the steps, looked at us, looked at the fort–and I have to say the only thing more fun than model trains is watching cats trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

The stairs to Fort Lionel are only five inches wide. When Lionel decided he wanted to come down the stairs, this was the exact time Henry decided he had to go up the stairs. And there they stood in the middle, staring at each other like two trains on the same track (I know trains can’t see and therefore can’t stare so please don’t comment about my using a mixed metaphor) (or that you feel it’s a simile). I knew the narrow staircase situation might happen but I really didn’t think it would be a problem, because previously I thought cats could back up. I know now they cannot (actually I’m sure they can but just refuse to). Either way, I know now what I’ll be doing this weekend which will be building a passing loop from the stairs to the couch (note improved use of train metaphor). This of course means the back door of the house, which happens to be in the kitty room, won’t sufficiently open since expanding the width of the stairs will prevent it from doing so, but it’s not really a problem since nobody uses the back door except me. But due to this recent need for further construction, I unfortunately will not be able to comment on any life and/or current events in the immediate future. But I will get back to the writing game as soon as this project is done (discipline and routine are essential to a writer). Of course, that’s assuming all goes well with the cat bunk beds, which is an idea that came to me just a moment ago when I took a break from this to go look up the definition of “butte.” But right after that I’ll be hunkering down at the old word processor again, unless I decide the swings and the Ferris wheel need to be done first.